



FRKSENTHD 'UY 




SUMNER F. CLAFLIN. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE 

THAT 1 HAVE GATHERED BY THE PATHWAY 

OF LIFE 



IF ANYTHING HEREIN IS TRUE, 'TIS GOD'S, ALL ELSE IS MINE 



PUBLISHED FOR AND AT THE REQUEST OF FRIENDS 

BY SUMNER P. CLAFLIN 

Manchester, N. H. 



SECOND EDITION. 



MANCHESTER, N. H. 

PRINTED BY THE JOHN B. CLARKE COMPANY 

1893 



-jS /^"^i 



COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY SUMNER F. CLAFLIN 



Gift 

Author 

APa 23 1914 



TO MY SAINTED MOTHER 

MARY ELLA SOUTHARD 

TO WHOM I OWE MANY OF THE CHARACTERISTICS 

WHICH HAVE BLESSED ME 

AND HELPED ME IN A HUMBLE WAY, I HOPE 

TO BE A BLESSING TO OTHERS 

BY A GRATEFUL SON 



CONTENTS, 













Page. 


Autobiography ......... 9 


Only a Picture ..... 








II 


A Sister of Mercy .... 








• 13 


How It Came ..... 










15 


The City of Nimrod . . , . 










16 


The Reel 










17 


An Optical Illusion 










19 


Cursed ; A Story of Rock Rimmon . . 










20 


Let This I.ove be In You 










2 2 


That Queer Lady 










24 


Grace ...... 










25 


A Rum Tragedy .... 










26 


Old Glory ..... 










28 


In the Land of "Is to Be " 










29 


Where Dwellest Thou? 










31 


From Bow Hills .... 










32 


The Cloudy Wedding Day . 










33 


Waiting ..... 










34 


Ernest ...... 










• 35 


A Morning Walk to Rock Rimmon 










• 36 


To THE Capitalist 










• 37 


A Lament 










39 


COLEBROOK 










40 


Intangible Verities 










42 


Along the Sands .... 








44 


'1'he Slanderer ..... 








45 


The Man who Writes Verses 








46 


My Faith ..... 






47 


The Unclean Heart . 










48 



CONTENTS. 



Denial Comes so Easily 

Recompensed . 

Philip Henry Sheridan 

The Next Roll Call . 

Coos .... 

The Rich Fool 

The Train that Did Not Cross 

Night .... 

The Salvation Army 

In the Night 

One Hope 

A Web of Worsted 

At Long Beach 

Sunrise Among the White Moun 

The King of Day 

The Mill Operative 

A Lesson 

Our Talents 

Hunger Does Not Reason 

Idleness 

Louie Laurel 

Oh, Future ! . . 

A View from Lombard's Hi 

As Seen at Sixteen 

The City Folks . 

Think of the Poor 

Poplar Leaves 

Finale .... 



PAINS 



50 
52 
53 
54 
56 
58 
60 
62 
63 
65 
67 
69 

71 
73 
75 
76 
78 

79 

80 
81 
82 
84 

85 
86 

87 
8S 
89 
90 



AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



To the reader of the following pages I will say that I have 
not written a book to be criticised, but rather gathered the 
scattered fragments of my mental history which from time to 
time have run the gauntlet of local newspaper sanctums and 
lodged in my scrap-book. Not a few of my friends have urged 
me to print these fragments in book form, and, being convmced 
that it can do no harm to gratify my friends, and incidentally 
myself, I herewith present some of my ''Thoughts in Verse." 
Respectfully yours, 

SUMNER F. CLAFLIN. 

Manchester, N. H., August, 1893. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 



Friend : Would you know me ? Consider whether you know 
yourself. I am told that I was born November 28, 1862, in a 
very common sort of a farmhouse, about half a mile from the 
railroad station in Auburn, N. H. When I was about six 
months old our family removed to Lyme, N. H., and in my 
eighth year we moved to Columbia Valley in the wild and 
wooded Upper Coos. Here and in Colebrook my boyhood days 
were spent. They were tame and uneventful, and very much 
like those which have succeeded them. I went to school, I 
worked on the farm, I trucked around the village with my 
father's team, and did odd jobs. As a boy I had religious im- 
pressions very early, and these, with a taste for reading, I fondly 
believe, developed my mind. I read Pilgrim's Progress, 
dreamed of giants and dragons, wrote sermons, stories, and 
rhymes of the most wearing kind, before I was twelve years old ; 
but if I inherited my literary tastes from my mother's people, I 
must have received a decidedly practical turn of mind from my 
father's side of the house, for I gravely informed my father on 
one occasion that "I didn't think the Claflins were built right 
for ministers," and I have also since discovered that " literary 
fellers " are not always appreciated according to their own esti- 
mates. If you wish to know what the party I am describing 
has been through, I will tell you. 

At seventeen years of age he went to work as a printer's ap- 
prentice. Within a year he bloomed out as a joint editor and 
proprietor with A. A. Harvey of the ''Colebrook News," hav- 
ing increased the circulation from 600 to 1,000. Sold out the 



10 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

paper after five months to John D. Bridge, the former owner, 
and afterward traveled for several papers as business agent in 
New Hampshire and Vermont. 

Leaving journalism in 1882, he entered the employ of the 
Manchester corporation, and a year later, work being slack, 
spent three months promoting ''The Atlantic," a beach and 
mountain summer season paper, published by J. D. P. Wingate, 
at Exeter, N. H., returning to the mill in August, 1883, to take 
charge of the sample card-making work in the finishing depart- 
ment. In connection with this he began editing the Concord, 
N. H., "Tribune" in 1884, and has continued the same up to 
this date, with the exception of three month§ in 1892. Has 
been honored with offices of trust in church, lodge, and party 
too numerous to mention, all of which has been duly appreci- 
ated, and was a candidate for elector on the People's Party 
ticket with Weaver and Field, in 1892. 

What others have seen in S. F. Claflin to thus honor him 
has always been a mystery to me. He is neither briUiant nor 
profound. He has neither the qualities of a martyr nor a states- 
man. All I can say in his favor is that he loves nature, God, 
and man, so far as his knowledge of them extends. He frankly 
admits the limited nature of his own acquirements, and his great 
debt to the world of mind and matter for what he is. At thirty 
years of age he greets you from the pages of this book as one 
who dimly realizes the meaning and the possibilities of human 
existence, and, having been granted a few good thoughts from 
the great Fountain of Intelligence, humbly offers them, with 
due apologies for whatever native crudeness may be found in 
his work, to the public. 

Manchester, N. H., August, 1893. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



ONLY A PICTURE. 



'^ Make me a picture of baby," I said to the artist one day, 
" A picture of my little baby, whom death has taken away ; 
Make his hair sunny and golden, and tangled about his face, 
Not brushed, as in silence we saw it, but full of life-like grace. 

" Make his eyes blue as in summer glows the morning sky ; 
And, say, can you light them with gladness, that cannot fade 

or die ? 
Curl his red lips and round them, and dimple his cheeks just 

so, 
(But his nose was a pug, no matter, you'd call it funny, I 

know). 

" And give him a checkered apron, with pocket for 'kerchief 

and toys, 
And some copper-toed boots with red tops, and a drum to 

make a noise. 
(We used to scold Tommy for that then, but so quiet our 

rooms have grown 
That I long for the romping baby and cry when I'm alone)." 



12 



THOUGHTS JN VERSE. 



The artist painted my picture with patient and tenderest art ; 
He seemed to feel my longings and the hunger of my heart. 
He outlined a chubby angel and gave him a form most fair ; 
He put the fresh glow on his soft cheek and the sunlight in his 
hair. 



The drum, the boots, and the apron were just as like as could 

be, 
And the hands that held the drumsticks were the ones he 

reached to me 
When the choking night-scourge seized him and bore his life 

away, 
But the eyes were not my baby's, their light was too cold and 

gray. 

I do not blame the artist. His art was tender and true. 

And the grace of his nameless cherub I loved, and so would 

you, 
But, oh, the light of my baby's soul, glowing in his eyes, 
Greets me no more — methinks 'tis hid with God in Paradise. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. " 1 3 



A SISTER OF MERCY. 



The years have flown swiftly, so swiftly, 
Since my loved one, my brave and true, 

Died like a man in the battle front. 
With never a murmured adieu. 

Then I longed for death to bear me 
Away from my hungry heart, 

Like a welcome friend to take me, 
O'er the gulf that held us apart. 

In that night I was thrilled by a vision 
Of meekness and beauty rare. 

Wounded and seeking the wounded, 
A crown of thorns in His hair. 

** Hungry art thou and troubled, 
And wilt thou be satisfied, 
Thinkest thou I am worthy, 
* Then come and be my bride." 

I followed him, broken with anguish, 
To the battlefields where there lay 

The torn and bleeding and dying, 
Of pitiless war the prey. 



14 ■ THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

1 loved them because He loved them, 
And joy filled my heart to know 

That my Bridegroom was ever beside me 
And pleased that I soothed their woe. 

And one day — one day unending, 
When these earthly days are through, 

I'll meet my brave boy, and my Bridegroom 
Shall be his Bridegroom, too. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. I 5 



HOW IT CAME. 



" Oh ! papa, there's snow on the ground and snow in the air. 
And a party of snow birds right over there 
By the lilac bushes, all coated and white — 
Papa, dear, how could the snow get here in the night ? " 

*• My lad, when you were asleep in your bed, 
An old gray giant, with stealthy tread, 
Crept up to the mountains that skirt the sky 
And peeped over these valleys on the sly. . 

" He saw the frost in the silent air. 
The fields and the gardens brown and bare ; 
'They want my blanket,' quoth he with a frown, 
And when he was ready- he let it down. 

" Over these valleys he stretched his arms, 
Over the cities, the woods, the farms. 
And out from his fingers a snowy sheet 
Dropped ever so silently at his feet. 

" The moon had veiled her misty face, 
The stars sank backward into space, 
And the snow kmg walked all the long, still night. 
To cover the world with his robe of white." 



l6 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE CITY OF NIMROD. 



Nimrod built Babel, the city in a far away eastern land. 
Nimrod, the mighty hunter and chief of a kingly band, 
And gathered the wealth of the Orient into his lordly store, 
Hung his walls with the trophies of chase and plunder and war. 

At the top of his Tower of Babel, his vassals gathered round, 
The Infinite Being met him, with a rushing mighty sound 
Which shattered the tower they builded, and palsied the tongues 

of men, 
And the dream of the puny builder came to a fitting end. 

And many a Nimrod since that time, and many, perhaps, un- 
born, 

Fill full their halls with beauty and their stores with wine and 
corn. 

Nor quit their greedy robbery of need at the beck of pride 

Till they, like the mighty hunter, walk captive at Death's side. 

Great was the mighty hunter, while his unseen watcher delayed, 
Commanding with princely power till at last he, too, obeyed. 
But better is he who holds his soul, ready, and calm, and true. 
To him defeat is victory and death brings endless life to view. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. I? 



THE REEL. 



To wee-o-wee-o-wee-o-wee catch snap, 

Skeining the yarn ; 

So many knots of woolly threads, 
' How many times does the wheel go round, 

Say, grandmarm ? " 
' How many flossy golden heads, 

How many glossy brown ? '' 

To-wee-o-wee-o-wee-owee catch snap. 

Winding away 

Soft warm mittens, comforting socks, 
•' How many needlefuls in a skein. 

Dear grammie,'' say 

Questioning children with curly locks, 
*' Oh ! many and many again." 

To-wee-o-wee-o-wee-o-wee catch snap, 
Dropping a thread. 
Pick it up quickly, to-wee-o-wee. 
Grandmother's reel goes flying away. 
Small Dorothy said: 
*• Grammie dear, when I is 'oo and 'oo is me 
I'll make 'oo some stockings some day." 



i8 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



To-wee-0-wee-o-wee-o-wee catch snap, 

Mischievous Dot 

Is whirling the reel like mad — 

Oh ! what fun — what a tangled mess 

Old grammie thought, 

Waking up quickly, '' Dot, you're bad 

( I must 'ha been sleeping I guess "). 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 1 9 



AN OPTICAL ILLUSION. 



It was on a summer's day, 
I was raking in the hay, 
When I saw a little 

Yellow bellied 

Spider — 

Oh ! I spied'er. 

I pulled the stopple from the jug, 
When I saw that leggy bug 
A dancing on 

The surface of 

The cider. 

Old hard cider. 

I jabbed at 'er with a stick, 
But she jumped so mighty quick 
That I plunked the 

Liquid element 

Beside 'er ; 

Then I eyed 'er. 

Suddenly she disappeared, 
Just precisely as I feared, 
I am thinking 

I'd been drinking 

Too much cider, 

Old hard cider. 



20 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



CURSED ; A STORY OF ROCK RIMMON. 



The fogs of a fresh June morning rise silently over the lake ; 
The sweaty earth breathing upward bangs dewdrops on bush 

and brake ; 
A rainbow in mist hangs over the Namaske's foamy way, 
But no eye of greedy paleface measures its silvered spray. 

The gentle wind of summer goes soughing through the pines, 
Shaking the buds and blossoms that hang on the dewy vines ; 
On Rimmon's bald crest in silence a dusky woman stands, 
The wild fog-swathed landscape with eager eyes she scans. 

There are tears on her swarthy cheek, and tears in her brim- 
ming eye 
That seeks for a sign of her missing boy, or his wee baby cry 
There in the silence, broken only by beast and bird, 
Manitou hears a mother's prayer and answers — not a word. 

The heron hovers stealthily where Piscataqua's waters flow, 
The gray mists vanish and the sun pours scorching rays below ; 
Among the pines that raise their heads around Rock Rimmon's 

feet. 
Within a grassy opening her darling lies asleep. 

The eyes of the mother rest on the tawny face of her child, 

With a joy unspeakable and a love that is undefiled ; 

But the eyes of a beast in hiding peer out from the tangled 

briars, 
Snapping with hunger and burning like liquid fires. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 21 

One swift-winged moment passes, then his hot, fierce breath 
Is on the cheek of the child like the baleful wind of death ; 
Was white-robed Justice sleeping when the blood-flecked pan- 
ther dined ? 
Was gentle Mercy paralyzed ? — were the eyes in heaven blind ? 

She stands a study in horror, a picture of helpless woe, 
Drawn by her fixed gaze heedlessly toward the scene below, 
Drawn by her mother love — to be dashed upon ragged stones, 
To writhe and breathe her life away in pitiful, useless moans. 

The sun glides over the dome of day and sinks on the evening side, 
And the fair twin mountains raise their heads its dimming disc 

to hide ; 
A swart-faced savage steals within the opening at Rimmon's feet, 
Slays with a blow the torpid brute, glutted with human meat. 

A broken bow on the grassy turf ; the bloody blanket of his son 

Clutched in stiff hands, her hands, his own, God pity this help- 
less one ; 

The rocks are more tender than his poor heart, whence joy and 
hope have fled. 

The prowling cat and the rattlesnake and the eagles bury his 
dead. 

But among the hills and beside the lake and over the piney 

•plain 
Was heard for many a day the yell of a beast with a human 

frame ; 
And when he died or where he died his fellows did not know ; 
But they nor their children forgot the brave thus cursed by 

Manitou. 



22 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



LET THIS LOVE BE IN YOU. 



A part of our works are folly, but more are embittered with 

sin, 
And striving for selfish pleasure we lose it again and again ; 
To toil is the lot of mortals and though a few may evade 
The heritage of the many, their burden is harder made. 

For what they gain from the treadmill is cankered and rusted 

and spoiled, 
With folly their lives are encrusted, with sin their souls are 

soiled ; 
A part of our love is lustful and more is selfish and vile. 
The love that will live eternal can neither blind nor defile. 

To love is the mission of mortal, by love to serve is divine. 

But hatred, lust, and envy shall perish without a sign ; 

For these profane the temple of reason and like vampires kill 

the soul. 
The world's love in part is lustful, but selfishness fills the 

whole. 

There is a vision of beauty, it may be yours and mine, 
The light of the traceless ages may be in our lives enshrined ; 
It shone from Bethlehem's manger, it sparkled on Galilee, 
It poured through the veil of the temple that all the world 
might see. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



23 



God's love on the altar of malice, a sinless offered Lamb, 
This is the vision of beauty, the sure hope of every man ; 
A love that shall conquer malice, a hope that defies despair, 
Shall spread in every faithful soul this vision of beauty fair. 




24 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THAT QUEER LADY, 



[The stooping figure of a faded looking little old lady is a familiar one to peo- 
ple arriving or departing from the Manchester station of the Concord Railroad. She 
may generally be found hovering near the waiting rooms or standing motionless and 
voiceless in the immediate vicinity. It is said that she was unfortuuate in a love affair 
many years ago, and has never been able to rid herself of the idea that a doubtless 
false lover will sometime return- to her. 1890.] 

I Stand and wait when the crowd throngs by, 
With my weak hands folded — I know not why ; 
I stand and wait ; the curious stare, 
They jest, they question, I do not care. 

They say my eyes are faded and weak, 
The storm and the sunshine have bleached my cheek ; 
And my clothes are dusty and shabby and old — 
I knew and I needn't have been told. 

But I bother them not as they pass me by, 

They shall not see me strive or cry ; 

I stand and wait, how long — how long ! 

To make mirth and tears for the passing throng } 

" Why am I waiting thus ? " God knows. 
He could release me if He chose ; 
What if my love I could not forget, 
But dwell in its hopeless ashes yet ? 

Is my penance to wait till the golden key 
Turns in the pearly gate for me ? 
My sad heart faints and my eyes are dim, 
But I'll wait and watch till the trains come in. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 2$ 



GRACE. 



[A poor young woman gone to the bad committed suicide under peculiarly sad cir- 
cumstances, in Manchester, about the time this was written.] 

Was it her fault that nobody claimed her, 

And, taught by their elders, the good children shunned her ? 
That for most of their mad pranks every one blamed her, 

Adopted — a come-by-chance — the ban she was under ? 

Was it her fault that God made her pretty, 

That homely and dull maidens feared her and hated her ? 
Was it her fault if wise men, and witty, 

Followed her wickedly ? Fortune had fated her. 

E'en as the wild beast will tread down and lacerate 

Many a victim he cannot devour ; 
So men, brave men(.'') with foul lust insatiate, 

Dishonor and cast away buds of an hour. 

Was it her fault if, betrayed and deserted, 

(And dug by their cruel hands the pit opened wide) 

She piteously plead with her slayers for mercy. 
But vainly ? Was it her fault that she died ? 

3 



26 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



A RUM TRAGEDY. 



[This wretched affair actually occurred as narrated, upon the road leading from Man- 
chester to Hooksett.] 

The woods were full of melody 

That early summer's day, 
And calm and peaceful lay the green 

Fields all along the way. 

The clear air shimmered in the sun, 

The world was all aglow, 
And not a sign in nature broke 

The harmony below. 

The busy city filled with life 

Sent forth a sound of toil, 
And who could know a serpent lay 

Concealed there in his coil ? 

To strike the old man in his age, 
The young man in his strength ; 

Take wisdom from the one, and break 
The other's power at length. 



What does the calm sun look upon 
Along the wooded way ? 

A cyclone, a thunderstorm. 
Or a tiger and his prey ? 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

Nay, but a frenzied flying brute, 
Two crazy drunken men, 

Filling the air with maniac yells, 
A crash — and silence then ! 

Oh, bloody is thy work, thou red 
Coiled serpent in the glass ! 

Thy victim in his gore lies dead 
Upon the wayside grass. 



27 




28 THOLHiHTS IN VEKSE. 



OLD GLORY. 



Brave flag, who shall tell thy glories o'er ? 

Ensign of liberty and of truth, 
Guardian of hope from shore to shore, 

Day star of the nation's youth. 

Thy bars are red, protector, friend, 

Thou hadst a bloody mother in the past ; 

Red bars we raised, but found between 

The white of dear-bought, welcome peace at last. 

Thy white stars shining in the blue 

Strove long together, causing many a tear ; 

Then wast thou torn, but God is true, 

And every star remains more fair, more dea,r. 

Black was the night thou earnest from, 

Deep was the darkness of the land ; 
This ensign to the nations shown, 

Revealed the brotherhood of man. 

How many stars. Old Glory, shalt thou wear ? 

How many #ands are* there along thy sea ? 
Thou every nation's galaxy shall bear 

And wave to the borders of eternity. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 29 



IN THE LAND OF IS-TO-BE. 



It was not heaven, but it was passing fair, 
With nought of covetousness, false pride, or care ; 
The streets were clean and every house was neat, 
And lawns and ecardens made the clear air sweet. 



&' 



No dudes nor idlers strolled in street or park ; 
No thieves nor charlatans whose deeds are ever dark ; 
From drunkards, beats, and tramps the place was free, 
Its use and beauty captivated me. 

As strains of music burst upon my ear, 
I saw a stream of happy people coming near, 
From mill and shop and field and farm away, 
Music and song did end the toiler's day. 

I went about the city thinking there 
I might find crime and poverty and care ; 
But all were prudent, rich, and sorrow free, 
Sharing God's ample bounty equally. 

Pride had no votaries, Mammon's shrine was still, 
Use was king, esteem spurred on the will ; 
Lust bought no more, for frailty had no need, 
There were no poor to be the prey of greed. 



30 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

The school, the church appeared on every hand, 
Their wise, sweet children, the riches of the land, 
I asked one, wondering, When should these things be ? 
*' When gold is dross. When man from want is free. 

■' When all are equal in fact and not in sham. 
When man acknowledges the brotherhood of man ; 
Then to this Is-to-be the world is marching on. 
The day is breaking, night will soon be gone." 

Let every face be bright, for hope is dawning ; 
Let every heart be light to greet the morning ; 
Let every hand be strong, for truth shall reign, 
And love shall teach us all in Jesus' name. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



'WHERE DWELLEST THOU?" 



Men live like gods, as though 

No justice could overtake them ; 

A merry round they run, 

And 'tis but just begun 

When Fate cries, " Halt ! 'tis done. 

And death will make them 

God's equity to know. 

Men die like dogs, in fear 
Lest shortly they shall find 
Earth's treasures, empty bubbles, 
Their honors, loss and troubles, 
Their virtue, grass and stubbles ; 
The heart, the life, the mind, 
Our richest treasures here. 

To live in heaven or in hell. 
Whither are we tending: ? 
The seeming slips away. 
The real man cannot stay. 
Life dwells not in the clay. 
All clays are blending ; 
In heaven life shall dwell. 



32 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



FROM BOW HILLS. 



[Looking down the Merrimack Valley upon a hazy August day, in 1890.] 

I saw, but yesterday, in the misty distance 
A brick-built city lying 'neath the sun. 
So still, no sound against the air's resistance 
Was flung to me from out its ceaseless hum. 

Weird clouds were drifting in the air of August 
Athwart the valley from far Francestown ; 
And in the north, beyond the " smiling waters," 
The white hills loomed like ghosts, my vision's bound. 

This piece of earth, this vale in fair New Hampshire, 

Lay like a picture in a sky -girt frame ; 

I thanked my God for the sweet gift of seeing 

A vale so beautiful of all His grand domain. 

I thanked Him ; then, from higher hills of Beulah 
God raised my vision to a city fair, 
A Heavenly city, but filmy clouds were drifting ; 
I only glimpsed the glories waiting there. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 33 



THE CLOUDY WEDDING DAY. 



Blest bride that the sun shone on. 
Will you show me your heart and say 
That e'er since your wedding day 
No ill tide to you has come ? 

Bodes ill the pattering rain. 
But what if your love, your light, 
Has ever been fair and bright, 
Care you if the sign proved vain ? 

The clouds do not touch the sun. 
Sunshine follows the shadows' train, 
And pleasure comes in the place of pain, 
And golden the clouds become. 



34 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



WAITING. 



The wheels of progress go round and round, 
Slippery with blood from many a wound ; 
And the great world moves so slow, so slow, 
Oh, God ! does the world move on, or no ? 

With the lens of faith and the eye of hope 
We draw for the world a horoscope. 
But doubt and folly combine to tear 
Great gaping rents in the picture fair. 

If thou be for us, O stars of the sky, 
Thou suns that shine divinely high, 
If thou, God, helpest to lift thine own. 
Why weary and faint are the toilers grown ? 

We strive, but he did not strive nor cry ; 
We faint, but we never reach Calvary ; 
We fret, but he with God sat down, 
From henceforth waiting to take his own. 

O eager spirit, be thou still 
Till the good Lord comes, for come he will ; 
And truth shall triumph and God shall reign, 
And none of his martyrs shall die in vain. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 35 



ERNEST. 



[Erne-^t Southard Claflin, the little bud God gave and took away from us August 21, 

1891.] 

I lost a little baby, 

At least I thought I did, 
When we put him in the casket, 

And sadly shut the lid. 

I could not see the angels 

That waited by his side, 
And took him to their bosoms, 

When my wee baby died. 

I. only knew the sorrow 

That parent hearts can feel. 
That hope alone can soften, 

And time alone can heal. 

The latest opening rosebud 

Fell first upon the ground ; 
The latest sinless spirit 

Was earliest to be crowned. 



36 THOUGHTS IN VEKSE. 



A MORNING WALK TO ROCK RIMMON 



I walk in the glow of morning, 

In the bare brown fields of spring, 
To the gray rocks rising their sober crests 
Above the trees where the robin nests 
And the little brown birds sing. 

I shun the jarring, the voices, 

The noisy engines of men ; 
My shrine is the Mayflower's hidden nook, 
Filled with sweet music, the gurgling brook 

That runs through the quiet glen. 

How like a cooling mother hand 

On the brow of a tired child 
The winds of the piney woods caress, 
The breath of spring comes down to bless 

My soul with influence mild ! 

I sit on the sun-kissed rocks, 

As quiet and moveless as they, 
And watch the winding fog belts rise 
Over the rivers, to melt in the skies, 
xVnd I dream of the far away. 



THOUGHTS m VERSE. 37 



TO THE CAPITALIST. 



You may keep your gold, my brother, 

Dug out of God's great hills ; 
You may keep your banks and counters, 

Your railroads and your mills ; 
They vex God's earth with blistering bands, 
They mar her face, where a city stands, 
They oppress the poor, with their helpless hands. 

And their puny, weakened wills. 

But never on me, my brother, 

Shall your yoke of usury fall ; 
My hand shall be free, my brother. 

And open, indeed, to all ; 
And the hills and the vales of God's fair earth, 
The far blue sky, where the clouds have birth, 
The stars that shine in the heaven's girth. 

My very own, I call. 

The wealth of the eye, my brother, 

Of touch, sound, taste, and smell ; 
The treasures of thought and fancy, 

Such as no tongue can tell ; 
These are the riches that cheer me. 
These are the creatures that hear me ; 
They come at my call, they are near me, 

I know their value well. 



38 



THOUGHTS JN VERSE. 



I pray you, my burdened brother, 

With shares and with stocks opprested, 

In folly dividing your baubles, 
Filled with eternal unrest ; 

Come back like a child to your mother, 

She calls you as never another ; 

Become her defender, ►her lover, 
The wealth of the Lord is best. 




^^^^-^^ 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 39 



A LAMENT. 



What has been done with the lyre I had, 

That soothed me in times gone by ? 
I want my lyre to weave me a song, 

But the fountain of music is dry. 

There is work to be done, there are bills to be paid, 

That the pot may boil merrily on ; 
And our family cares are depressing affairs, 

That don't look well when sung in a song. 

I know it is wrong to relinquish my lyre, 

For the slogan of " root, hog, or die," 
What devotion and faith my poor verse might inspire, 

For the truth, though 'tis rough, cannot die. 

But how can a. man with a family of six. 

And living on common day pay. 
Spare the time to think as a poet should think. 

Or to say what a poet should say ? 



40 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



COLEBROOK. 



[Whtre I spent eleven years of my boyhood life.] 

Where is the village I used to know, 

The stores, the shops, the mills. 
The steepled churches and busy streets, 

That nestled between the hills ? 
Those kindly faces and pleasant eyes. 

The thin and silvered hair 
Of many of those I used to know, 

I find are no longer there. 

O time, you have cheated my vision sore ! 

For the children, the women, the men, 
As they were in the village I used to know, 

I shall never see again. 
On the lads that romped at the schoolhouse door, 

And the lasses shy and fair, 
The greedy world has levied a toll. 

And the reaper has gleaned his share. 

Now fading away from my yearning eyes. 

In the shadows of passing years, 
The boys and girls I used to know, — 

My village no more appears. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 4I 

The boys that romp in the fields and woods, 

And the girls on the schoolhouse green, 
Perchance their parents I may have known. 

But these I have never seen. 

Farewell, old village I loved so well 

While others may love the new, 
Though drifting apart on the tide of time, 

My heart belongs to you. 




42 THOUGHTS IX VERSE. 



INTANGIBLE VERITIES. 



There are landscapes that never were painted, 
And skies that no brush has portrayed, 

I have seen, and their beauty has thrilled me 
With impressions that never shall fade. 

There are lives all around me that open 
Such secrets as books do not hold ; 

So common, maybe, but so hallowed 
That in language they cannot be told. 

There are thoughts that the tongue cannot utter, 

And visions not copied in w^ords, 
Incoherent but blissful as Eden, 

And sweet as the song of birds ; 

The caress of a child on the rough cheek, 

The pure love of mother or maid, 
The holy emotions of wifehood 

In bridal garments arrayed. 

The impetuous hopes of the scholar. 

The yearnings of poet and sage, 
Unwritten in books, are recorded 

By time on eternity's page. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 43 



And God is unceasingly working 
With time's great winnowing fan, 

And the chaff, the dross, and the evil 
Are beino: blown from His hand. 



■fc> 



Intangible souls are borne upward 
By currents that cannot be seen ; 

But the fruits of the God-driven spirit 
Our days and our works shall redeem. 

Then fear not, for nothing is wasted ; 

The world, with its work and its care, 
Is given to perfect our spirits 

For the dwelling our God will prepare. 




44 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



ALONG THE SANDS. 



Jennie, love, come nearer, the shores are cold and bleak, 

Our eyes are dimmed, our voices low, our steps so slow and 

weak ; 
Fifty years ago, Jennie, we danced upon the sand, 
For life or death united we started hand in hand. 

The sea was sparkling 'neath the sun and pleasant was the 

shore, 
And one by one our babies came and romped along before ; 
Yes, one by one, Jennie, their little boats sailed away. 
The broken chords we cherish, we could not bid them stay. 

We thought they should have tarried to set our boats to sea. 
When the winds off shore should fill our sails for eternity ; 
But thus it was. I question not, and stranger hands will guide 
Our barks on the wintery billows, Jennie, side by side. 

The distant sun hangs low in a cold and dreary sky. 
Beyond the jutting cliffs where the white waves dash hard by; 
These sands are lonesome, Jennie, so hand in hand we'll go, 
With the winds in the sails off shore — God let them blow. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 45 



THE SLANDERER. 



[An actual character whom I knew. Perhaps you, dear reader, have known him.] 

*' Hope to die — drop dead," 
That's what the fellow said. 

" It's just as I tell you," said he ; 
" Now this is confidential, so 
Only just us two know, 

But it's true as ever can be. 

" I won't lie a little bit, 
I can't be a hypocrite, 

But it's awful the tale I must tell ; 
This wrangling near kills me, 
But to tell it now fills me 

With joy as deep as — a well." 

Its whiskers were hoary, 
But he told me his story, 

Adjusted to suit, I presume ; 
Being all confidential, 

It's quite inconsequential 
How he sang the slanderer's tune. 

" Don't breathe a word of it 
(Or you might have to prove it, — ) 

But I must be going," said he ; 
Good-bye to you — Mizpah ! 
Dear fellow, don't whisper 

The slanderer's tale about me. 



^6 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE MAN WHO WRITES VERSES. 



[Some persons have been vain enough to think this was intended for them. It has 
no personal significance.] 

Not over bright, he caught at events notable 

Happening daily, and scribbled his verse. 
Weaving in warnings and truths never dying 

Among lines that were bad and rhymes that were worse. 

" God pity the simple," said flippant and witty ones, 
" Give him a half dime for charity's sake ; " 

And blessed was the giver to one of God's little ones, 
But truth in the verses the rhymes cannot shake. 

No man is to blame for the clay he was made of ; 

No man must account for what God never gave ; 
Our gifts are in trust, and he who has many 

Should scatter them freely from cradle to grave. 

Perchance in the reckoning the man who wrote verses, 
Having used his poor talents the best that he knew, 

Will find many a star in his crown of rejoicing, 
His truths all productive, because they were true. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 4/ 



MY FAITH, 



I do not know how far away 

My home may be, 
I only know that Jesus has 

A home for me. 
I cannot tell how dark the path 

That toward it lies, 
I know some time the path will end 

In Paradise. 

I cannot see, with human eye. 

My heavenly guide. 
But now I know that in my heart 

He will abide. 
I cannot measure with my love 

His love divine. 
Still, resting in His grace, I know 

His love is mine. 

I scarce can show you how He bends 

My wayward will, 
But He does bend it by His love 

To love fulfill ; 
And in my heart I know my King's 

Free spirit reigns 
To heal the adversary's wounds 

And break my chains. 



48 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE UNCLEAN HEART. 



[For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, 
thefts, false witness, blasphemies. These are the things which defile a man. — Mat- 
thew XV. 19 ] 

They tell of the open mouths of hell, 

Reeking dives, foul-aired saloons ; 
Lustful and hateful — expose them well ; 

They are pits full of dead men's bones. 

But I know of a fouler pit by far, 

Du^^ deep, and hid by a fair outside, 
Where a nest of unclean spirits are — 

The pit where these dead men died. 

A nest of spirits, — wanton-eyed lust. 

Jealous envy, of venomous speech. 
Swelling pride and mincing mistrust. 

And selfish, soulless greed in each. 

And up from this nest to the listening brain, 
Propelled by passion her channels through, 

Come voices subtile, insidious, plain. 

As they spoke to Adam, they speak to you. 

Dare it, seek it, be brave, be bold, 

Disobedience brings subtilty ; thine eye 

Shall see as God and judge between 

His good works — "Thou shalt not surely die." 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



49 



And men are falling, their greedy hands 
Itching for lucre, hearts full of crime ; 

Dead yet living, writhing on blistering sands 
Of desperate fear, braving God's reckoning time. 




50 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



DENIAL COMES SO EASILY, 



[Apropos of the way in which "prominent citizens" disclaimed connection with the 
" Citizens' League " once upon a time.] 

With his friends in the upper chamber 

Sat Peter. The feast was done, 
And the Master must go to the garden ; 

The hour of his trial was come. 
"I, too, will suffer," said Peter, 

'* In prison or death for Thee ; " 
The Master smiled sadly upon him, 

For He knew what the trial would be. 

Away from Gethsemane's shadows, 

Like sheep, the disciples had fled ; 
Judas had earned his silver. 

And the Lamb to His slaughter was led. 
The maids and the loafing rabble 

Saw Peter's scared face at the gate ; 
'* Surely thou, too, wast with him, — 

Him whom the Pharisees hate." 

But Peter, the valiant, was angry, 

And boldly he published his shame ; 
So easy to go with the rabble, 

So hard to endure for His name ! 
When the Pharisees fawn on the Master, 

And sinners are chanting His praise, 
Peter is bold as a lion. 

For that is when bravery pays. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



51 



But when all the forces of evil 

That stir in the hearts of men 
Are turned on the suffering Master, 

Who will stand for Him then ? 
With haste comes Peter's denial : 

" Good people, pray understand 
Distinctly, we mind our own business ; 

As for Him, why, we don't know the man. 




52 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



RECOMPENSED. 



The weary toil of one long day is over, 

And the far west is tinged with glories gone : 

I sit and rest, and only think and wonder 
What it will be when toiling days are done. 

When the winged soul shall rise from this weak body, 
And the limp hands shall rest to work no more ; 

Will God provide us, in His boundless wisdom, 
Tasks like these on the eternal shore ? 

Or will he give us work for each one fitted. 
The labor each desires for each to do, — 

The weak encouraged, and the halting pitied. 

Impelled with confidence towards the ends in view ? 

Ah ! then if comfort such as this repay me 

After the failures, I have only gained. 
How sweet earth's twilight ! Death itself but hastens 

My victory, and why have I complained ? 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 53 



PHILIP HENRY SHERIDAN. 



Ebbing, ebbing, ebbing out like a silent tide, 
Ebbing into the shadows, a man in his manly pride ; 
The fiery blood of youth, fierce in his warlike prime, 
Has stilled in the changeless ocean that laves the shores of 
time. 

Victor of many battles, hero among a host, 
Stricken by the last enemy, shrunk to a very ghost ; 
The hand of the ceaseless reaper clutched the golden sheaf, 
Painlessly felf the sickle of death, but not as a thief. 

For over the grief-swept nation that lies between the seas, 
The millions were tearfully waiting to hear of his soul's release; 
Quick beat the heart of the nation, as rose the morning sun, 
Like lightning ran the tidings that the vigil of death was done. 

Not in the hot blood of battle the soldier bit the dust, 

Not in frenzy or in fever, as many of us must ; 

But calmly he met the reaper, his soul flowed out like a tide — 

A victor in life, and, think you, victor when he died. ? 



54 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE NEXT ROLL-CALL. 

[Published in the Mirror in connection with the Decoration Day exercises of i8S8.] 

Strew well the flowers, old comrades, 

It takes more every year, 
I'm wondering this time twelvemonth 

How many we'll nimiber here. 
The ranks are thinning ; the faces 

We've met in the years gone past 
Are lessening sadly, and whiter 

The heads than when we met last. 

• 

My vision is fitful, old comrades, « 

The pictures are jumbled to-night ; 
The living and dead together 

Seem mixed in a weird twilight ; 
And over the graves they are marching 

With banners and harness of war. 
Silently, swiftly, and grandly, 

So grandly my soul is in awe. 

The men who came back to the Northland 

From facing the cannon's mouth, 
The men who dropped bravely in battle 

Their bones in the fields of the south, 
Offered for freedom and country 

So freely the gift that was due, 
Approach the great roll-call up yonder. 

My vision reveals them to view. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 55 

No more with the harness of battle 

Mustering into a hell-heated strife, 
But they meet on the mountains of Beulah 

At the roll-call of endless life. 
Then strew well the flowers, old comrades, 

We'll meet in the twilight too. 
And all march home in the morning, 

The faithful, fearless, and true. 




56 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



COOS." 



There's a grand and glorious country, 

Where the wild winds gently play, 
'Mid the hills and wooded summits, 

From the ocean far away ; 
'Tis a country bright and beautiful 

As any earth can boast. 
Though no wide sea laves its borders, 

And no wild waves beat its coast. 

It is filled with happy people, 

Who are thrifty, neat, and clean, 
Who no despot owe allegiance, 

Who obey no king or queen ; 
It has rapid, rushing rivers 

Scarcely tamed by man's control, 
And God's brightest, purest sunshine 

Falh upon to light the whole. 

It has villages and gardens. 

It has farms and happy homes, 
And throughout its pleasant valleys 

Direful famine never comes ; 
It has sons of valiant vigor 

Who have fought in freedom's name;, 
And whose deeds have been recorded 

On the brightest page of fame. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 57 

'Tis a land of boundless resource ; 

'Tis a giant fast asleep, 
Who shall wake, and rise, and gird himself, 

And to brighter glories leap ; 
Sometime on its rushing rivers 

Shall the busy mill-wheel turn, 
Giving bread to coming thousands, 

Who the giant's power shall learn. 

Sometime all along its valleys 

To its wood-clad northern bound 
Shall penetrate the " iron pathway," 

And the steam horse's stirring sound ; 
Sometime on the wooded hillsides 

Which adorn the young Coos, 
Shall be orchard plots and vineyards 

Instead of virgin woods aiul moss. 

Yes, Coos is this grand country 

Of whose beauties I would tell. 
Filled with forests, farms, and freemen. 

And the sound of village bell; 
Then all hail to this brave country, 

With its prospects and its past, 
Brightest of New Hampshire's jewels 

And of nature's unsurpassed. 

* Written for and published in the "Northern Sentinel " in 1880. The chief 
nterest of the above lies in the fact that a portion of its predictions have been, and the 
est are being, fulfilled at the present time. 



58 THOUGHTS ]N VERSE. 



THE RICH FOOL. 

The fool sat down in his strong room to count his money again, 
His chest stored full of his gathered gains, a feast for greedy 

men ; 
The dog on the rug whined softly as he mused of his bones 

well hid ; 
The fool wouldn't hear his restless plaint, or heed it if he did ; 
On the black and grimy table the fool unloaded his chest, 
To gloat on his petty treasures, but hunger filled his breast. 

''Tis not enough," he muttered, and sought with eager haste, 
In the littered wealth of the strong box, the yellow gold mis- 
placed ; 
The fool sat pondering sadly by the side of his emptied box, 
Then dreaming, he stood on a city street where mixed humanity 

flocks ; 
Poor beggar, famished, greedy, with his soul in his sunken eyes, 
'' Give-give-give-give,'good people, for I am starving ! " he cries. 

So some from the depth of poverty cast in a "widow's mite," 
Some, idly flinging a gold piece, passed out of the beggar's 

sight. 
Some even pity the beggar (I think not that such pity was 

vain), 
Though a wolf received their bounty, its motive was just the 

same. 
The well-pursed beggar zuas starving with fierce, unsatisfied lust. 
His tinsel god fled like a phantom of empty, pulseless dust. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 59 

The troubled dreams of the fool led his soid to a land most fair, 

Bright as the sun ; of golden streets and gates of pearls most 
rare ; 

In its midst stood the wealthy fool, having left his chest 
behind — 

O, if he had it to fill with gold, it would be a feast to his mind ; 

He'd gather the gems, he'd pluck the pearls and jewels glisten- 
ing fair, 

And get a mortgage over the rest, if they had mortgages there. 

And all the people of that fair land sang songs of victory sweet, 
Not one was gathering pearls or gems or digging the gold from 

the street. 
^' Now this must be hell," mused the wealthy fool ; "this is hell 

I trow. 
What beggars they are 'mid all this wealth, and never a title 

they show." 
A voice in the fool's ear whispers : "I am their title, friend ; 
I filled their emptied vessels, and their fullness shall not end." 
'^ * * * * 

A fool, a chest, a flickering lamp, the vision has passed away ; 
But the hunger that gnawed at this withered soul had come 

indeed to stay. 
The dog at noon sought, his "cache," and got from the bones 

his fill. 
The fool, though gathering gold all day, was a hungry beggar 

still. 



60 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE TRAIN THAT DID NOT CROSS. 

The moonlight fades, the rushing wheels 
Slack not through cut o'er stream or fields. 
There are mellow lights on the dusky hills ; 
Eyes in the darkness, and each one fills 
A home on its hillside. Through loosened blind 
Like hope they unto my soul have shined ; 
Such kindly eyes, but the joy or the woe 
Of each home circle we cannot know. 

The shadows deepen, and rank on rank 
Grim hills reach down to the river bank. 
Burned hills where a dead forest stands 
Stripped of its glory by ruthless hands. 
Our black beast labors, his hoarse breath pours 
Up from his open mouth — anon he roars. 
And the woods shrink backward, up we glide 
Along an echoing mountain side. 

Death, the reaper, with sunken eye. 
Peers into the coaches as on they fly ; 
Counting his harvest, unseen, unknown, 
Marking and grimly sealing his own. 
They jest, they sleep, the moments fly, 
The hills unroll, milestones speed by ; 
While thoughtless, thoughtful, grave, and gay. 
Move on to an un thought destiny. 



THOUGHTS IX VERSE. 6 1 

The gorge is deep where the trestle spans 

The narrow valley with iron bands, 

Tempered and tested, and yet who knows 

That it will not fall 'neath the car wheel blows ? 

Iron, but iron crumbles ; strong, but it fails ; 

Swiftly our train sinks on its broken rails. 

Our trembling ^east is freed by a snapping link ; 

Many have sunk into death, we stand on the brink. 

They, crushed and torn, jammed in awful wreck 
That kind nature with vines and flowers will deck. 
Death reaps swiftly, and sadly we bury his prey. 
Slowly pitying nature covers the wreck of a dav- 
Yes, death reaps swiftly. O thoughtless ! O vile ! 
Like a shadow he follows you all the while. 
Unseen but relentless. Your bridges crossed 
Tell not of that bridge where your train will be lost. 



()2 THOUGHTS IX VERSE. 



NIGHT. 



The hills rolled up and hid the evening sun, 
The stars shone bi'ightly downward one by one, 
The steaming earth gave forth its vapory breath, 
The air o:rew still as solitude and death. 



&' 



The hills receding, forth leaped the mellow moon, 
First golden yellow, at length it silvery shone. 
Slowly along its bidden path proceeding, 
Its path unseen, its myriad legions leading. 

To greet the morn, roll back, ye walls of night ! 
Roll back, ye hills, and greet the glorious light ! 
'Tis but a little span from day to day. 
Unmoved we hasten, while time speeds away. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE SALVATION ARMY. 



In the gathering shadows of evening I stood on a city street, 
'Twas a market night and the sidewalks held many passing feet ; 
Some slow, some halting, some drunken, some brisk as with 

work to do, 
The tapping cane of the blind man, — each passed in a short 

review. 

The many lights of the city lit avenues far and wide, 

' Glinting on thrifty dwelUngs and the temples, a city's pride ; 

The snow in the air is icy with the frigid zero blast, 

It swirls 'round the corners in eddies, and settles thick and fast. 

Hark ! what in the distance coming, with banner and music 

and song ? 
Why do the people listen as the troop comes marching on ? 
They come in review ; we see them ; and one thought fills many 

a soul 
As they sing the songs of salvation and Christ the way and goal 

Poor and simple and needy, as the world counts human need. 
Jostled and jeered and spurned, as they sing and pray and plead, 
Searching in hedges and highways, friends of the outcast and 

lost. 
Counting not life as dear to them, nor heeding the biting frost. 



64 THOUGHTS IX VERSE. 

God has sent many servants, methought, but these are the last. 
Perhaps the feast will be ready when these are fully ]">ast. 
And then in spirit I crossed the gulf to the fair palace gate, 
Saw^ the banqTiet and heard the songs of the feasters, small 
and great. 

The poor, the hungry, the naked, the simple, the blind, the lame 
Sang again the songs of salvation and victory in his name. 
We are glad for the Salvation Army, by whatever name 'tis 

known. 
We are glad for the humble Christians bringing back to the 

Lord his own. 

Brave army now rejoicing in Christ a Saviour's birth. 
Brave tireless band of recruiters gathering the harvest of earth, 
Work on, for your triumph comes, the day star shines on high, 
And thousands will bless your labors in the reckoning by 
and bv. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 65 



IN THE NIGHT. 



The night hangs cloudy and sullen, on nature's shrouded form, 
The winds hold carnival, and ice dust whets the edge of the 

storm. 
The empty streets of the city, the frowning hills and plain, 
Resound to the tread of the giants pulling the midnight train. 

Two flaming torches streaming into the night, 
Pigmies feeding and guiding them in their flight. 
Down the dark valleys, by sheeted river banks, 
Grim hills before them with solid front and flanks. 

A plunge, a hoarse gasp, the Titans sink from view ; 
They pierce the hills that hinder and so pass through. 
In other vales, by other streams, the little masters guiding. 
The shrill, shrieking giants come forth from their earthy 
hiding. 



Down the grade, on the curve where the highway crosses 

the track, 
A man lies clutching a bottle, the gathering snow on his back ; 
Kicked out of the tavern yonder and seeking a drunkard's home 
He stumbles, stupidly muttering, and lies on the iron alone. 



66 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

At home a brute and a terror, ugly, vile, and profane, 
A drunken lout at the groggery, a weak and blear-eyed shame, 
A wreck of a man, a rack-o-bones 'twould seem a mercy to kill, 
Lying there in a drunken stupor, — a human being still. 

Oh ! woe to the world because of sin, — the devils clutch 

their prey. 
One crawls from the half filled bottle, one meets him by the way ; 
" Ha, this is our prize," they clamor, " we've steered him 

about for years ; " 
In the gloom the poor foUow's good angel retires in silence 

and tears. 

And round the curve with a wild shriek the trembling engines 

glide 
With flaming torches and panting breath, but the dead d:re 

not terrified. 
Over the crossing, a crackle of bones, a smearing of rags 

and gore, 
The train moves on with its badge of death, but the life had 

gone on before. 

The pitiful snow has shrouded the bones when. morning breaks, 
Would it could blot the curse of rum out for its victims' sakes ! 
The smeared wheels tell part of the story, a shattered bottle 

the rest, 
From a drunkard's home to a drunkard's o-rave he 2;oes un 

mourned, unblest. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. ' 6/ 



ONE HOPE. 



'Twas New Year's night, and up and down the land, 
Brooding above ten thousand homes there lay 

The shadow of death, unseen, unknown, the sands 
Of life in many channels ran away. 

The wind around the gloomy gables howling- 
Bore dirges low and sorrow-laden strains ; 

'Tis midnight now, but joy comes in the morning : 
The year is born, and time has ceased her pains. 

And still, pressed on by never ceasing motion. 
Events take shape and fade from us away ; 

Fade from us for a time in the eternal ocean. 
Their impress only with our spirits stay. 

Yesterday, today, tomorrow, stalking swiftly past. 
Resting never on square or lane, or street, 

Bring in their burdens, perplexing, mixed and fast, 
Burdens that each and all of us must meet. 

Oh ! this is life which each new year discovers. 
And mingled with it are the dregs of death, 

Are broken hearts, seared hands, our friends and lovers, 
Blown forth and from us by Time's fatal breath. 



68 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



Above the graves of ages gone, we glide 

Among the aetors in a fading scene 
That fades and vanishes like an ebbing tide ; 

With mortal hands we reach and grasp — a dream. 

One hope remains, amid the sweep of ages 
One anchor holds, fast cast within the veil. 

In Christ, the righteous, sung by priests and sages, 
Man can be saved, else God himself can fail. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 69 



A WEB OF WORSTED. 

Washing and sorting the fleece 
Till white as driven snow, 
To make ready the filling and warp, 
Spooling it row upon row. 
Hands that are wrinkled and old, 
Hands that are young and fair, 
The gay and the sad together 
These thousand threads prepare. 

Into a forest of looms 
Go these threads of white and gray, 
The cotton and wool together 
From the weaver's spool will play. 
While into the cloth unnoticed 
Are woven the buds and flowers. 
The master is guiding the shuttle, 
And the web tells off the hours. 

Then into a place where busy hands 
Follow the guiding eye with care, 
Purging the cloth of the coarser strands 
Leaving it white and fair. 
Ah ! wondrous is the chemist's art, 
Combining with consummate skill 
The dyes that various shades impart, 
Well known to the master's will. 



yO THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

And thus is woven each human hfe 

As the worsted web is made, 

By many hands our lives are touched 

E'er in fullness at last arrayed 

But the Mastci'- is guiding the shuttle, 

His wisdom is weaving the strands, 

Our beginnings and our ends are His, 

Our lives are in His hands. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 7 1 



AT LONG BEACH. 



I Stroll in the gathering twilight, 

Along the glistening strand, 
Where the waves flash among the pebbles, 

And reach, and reach to the land. 

I sit on a round, worn boulder, 
In the cove by the Nubble light, 

And look out at the somber waters. 
Look into the deep'ning night. 

Awav in the distance gleaming, 
The star of Boon Island shines ; 

Guiding the weary travelers 
On the ocean's varying lines. 

And farther still, to the southward 

Of Star and Smutty Nose, 
Just over the disc of waters, 

The White Island signal glows. 

Beyond the headland's brow. 

Beyond the rocks and the sands. 

Beyond the narrows, the harbor lies, 
And a grim old city stands. 

Beyond the waters that lap the sand, 
Beyond the waves of the deep, 

Lie the peaceful shores of my mother land, 
And 'tis there my kindred sleep. 



72 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



Though many years have come and gone. 

Long years I cannot number, 
Once more among these graves Fll roam, 

And think, and dream, and wonder, 

How vast is life, how sure is death, 
How soon Time's night shuts o'er us, 

With here and there a shining mark, 
Like the beacon lights before us. 

The peaceful wavelets ripple free 
And flash on the pebbly shore. 

Lives meet, lives verged on eternity, 
And drift apart forevermore. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 73 



SUNRISE AMONG THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



I Stood at the foot of the mountains 
Where the wild Ammonoosuc plays, 

At daybreak in summer, with the sunlight 
Just touching their tops with its rays. 

And as slowly the darkness departed 
From valley and glen and nook, 

I climbed up a neighboring hillside, 
Where fell a clear, babbling brook. 

Still higher and higher I climbed. 

For the gray morning mists had come. 

And with shadows had covered the valley 
Away from the rising sun. 

At length on a ledge I halted, 

Half-way to the summit, and gazed 

From my feet to the walls of the mountains 
O'er the phantom-like sea as it raised. 

Ye grand and glorious summits, 

Nobly your names ye wear, 
Washington, Adams and Jefferson, 

Far off in the upper air. 

I shout o'er the noiseless billows. 

O'er the valley that lies below, 
The reply comes back from the mountains 

In a voice that is sweet and low. 



74 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 

O had I a boat with sails 

To plow that billowy sea, 
From the hills to the mountains gliding 

As the light winds wafted me ! 

How free seems the air of the morning, 
E'er the heat of the day has come, 

E'er we seek the cool glen where the cascade fallsy 
To hide from the burning sun ! 

It is now, when darkness is routed, 

And daytime floods the earth, 
When the gathering mists are lifting, 

That thoughts like these have birth. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 75 



THE KING OF DAY. 



Over the hills of morning 

Rides the King of Day, 
His polished lances flashing, 

Driving the night away. 

Over the huge blue mountains, 
Down through the dark ravine, 

Chasing the flying shadows 
Over the lake and stream. 

Myriads of feathered songsters 

Caroling welcoming lays 
To the life and light of the world, 

The beautiful King of the days. 

Happy in God's bright sunshine, 

The whole world blessed with His love, 

Give thanks for the King of the daytime 
To the mightier power above. 



76 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THE MILL OPERATIVE. 



Day after day, as time drags wearily by, 
Sometimes heavy with grief and ready to die, 
Sometimes buoyant with hope, gleeful and gay, 
Hour after hour the slow time slips away. 

We hear the buzzing belts, the jarring wheels, 
The click, click, as the shuttle the driver feels ; 
We watch the bobbing heads whose busy brains 
Weave thought with every thread, with wearying pains. 

Earning a scanty meed, wearing life away. 
Bright eyes growing dim, hair turning gray. 
Hands made weak with toil, faces faded and thin, 
Fashioning beautiful fabrics for some one to revel in. 

This is our tale of life, alas ! we know too well ; 

We start at the sound of a gong, and march when we hear 

the bell. 
There is morning air to breathe, and flowers of many hues, 
But the meed we earn must suffice us, God's chiefest wealth 

to lose. 

There are some, who, with smiles of hope, go forth to daily 

toil, 
A fortune to win is theirs, and life has a glittering foil. 
Others there are in the throng that crowds the wide mill gate, 
Whose faces bear tales unspoken, of defeat in a fight with fate. 



THOUGHTS IN VEKSE. 



77 



God pity the poor who labor with never a hope of gain, 
If their scauty meed the body will feed with not a scrap 

for the brain. 
God grant them some of the flowers that bloom along life's 

highway, 
And a final triumphal entry to the realms of eternal day. 




yS THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



A LESSON. 



From every flower that blooms beside the way 
A lesson may be learned by you and I ; 

That all the acts of every flying day 
Will leave their impress on eternity. 

For ''not a sparrow falleth to the ground," 

And e'en the lilies in the field, 
But God shall see, and He Himself shall crown, 

And in them show his power to guide and shield. 

And though we live to bloom in deserts drear, 
And all unknown our life's work do and die, 

He knows thy labor, He has heard thy prayer; 
He will reward thee grandly by and by. 




THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 79 



OUR TALENTS. 



Though we are not masters of five talents, 
Nor the proud possessors of ten, 

With that which the Lord has given us, 
Let us all do what we can. 

We are not placed in earth's vineyard 
To slothfuUy slumber and shirk, 

But to take up our talents rather, 
And go out in the world and work. 

So that, when the good Lord of the vineyard 
Shall welcome us home to our rest. 

He may say, ''Well done, faithful servant, 
Come taste of the joy of the blest." 




80 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



HUNGER DOES NOT REASON. 



Was it vision, fact, or dream, 
Spread before me in the night ? 

How the hungry wolves did raven ; 
Masters fled but found no haven ; 

Vassal dogs that stood between, 
Whined in terror and afright. 

Was it vision, dream, or fact ; 

That the workmen, unemployed, 
Turned to fierce wolves, fanged and gaunt, 

Driven by the spurs of want. 
Till the smiling land grew black, 

And its masters were destroyed ? 

Be it fact or dream or vision, 

Its dread presence haunts me still. 

Will the world grow wise in season ? 
Starving labor does not reason ; 

And if suffering brings collision, 
It will plunder, burn, and kill. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



IDLENESS. 



S 



, By permission, wiitlen by P. H. A. Claflin. 

Why Stand ye all the day idle, 

And in indolence loiter away 
All the bright, golden-winged moment 

The gems in the crown of the day 
While life hurries on like a shadow, 

Opportunities come and are past. 
Till with neither a crown nor a scepter 

Ye halt at death's challenge at last. 

Why stand ye all the day idle ? 

Go enter the lists among men. 
There are arms for the contest abundant, 

Take a spade, if you can't wield a pen. 
The world is a broad field of battle. 

And no man worthy the name 
But can win the sweet garland of comfort. 

Though few wear the laurel of fame. 

Why stand ye all the day idle, 

While the sun of the seedtime shines on .? 
Know you not that life, in its seasons, 

Will soon bring the harvest along ? 
And if, in the harvest approaching, 

The fine, luscious fruit you would bear. 
Take heed, while the plant is yet tender, 

To weed out the thorn and the tare. 



82 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



LOUIE LAUREL 

It is night, and gloomy London 
Lies still in the arms of sleep ; 

And the murmurs of the daytime 
Are not heard upon the street, 

Darkly lies the fog o'er London 

And the river flows along 
To its far off destination 

In the North Sea, and is gone. 

In a dimly lighted chamber, 
Far above the silent street, 

Louie Laurel lies unconscious, 
Faintly breathing in his sleep, 

While beside him sits his mother, 
Sadly watching through the night. 

For perhaps the flame of fever 

Will have turned by morning light. 

List — the old Tower clock is striking 
Slowly, and with measured stroke. 

Until twelve has been recorded 
On its mighty disc of oak. 

Louie, as the clock stops striking. 
Wakes and whispers, '' Mamma, say, 

Mamma, has the darkness ended — 
Tell me, is it almost dav ? " 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 83 

" My poor child, lie still and slumber," 

Softly said the mother then, 
" Soon the darkness will have ended, 

Morning soon will come again." 

"Mamma, I am sure 'tis morning, 

For the light is breaking now ; 
There are, O such pretty angels ! 

They are calling. Mayn't I go ? 

"O my child, you cannot leave me, 
Stay, you must not, s/m// not die." 

But the child is with the angels 
And his Saviour in the sky. 

All is o'er, and gloomy London 

Lies in unresponsive sleep ; 
And the silent fog hangs coldly 

In the dark, deserted street. 

But another life has ended, 

And among the angel throng 
Another sweet and pure child spirit 

Learns heaven's redemption song. 



84 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



OH, FUTURE! 



^'Oh, Future!'' I cry out in darkness, 

*' Why hid'st thou Life's secrets from me ?' 

But Echo repeats my sad query, 
The darkness alone I can see. 

And Life still keeps on like a timepiece ; 

My days like the forest leaves fall ; 
My bones will soon rest by my fathers', 

And I shall be least of all. 

The nameless, heart-yearnings of mortals, 
The groping in darkness for light, 

The reaching for noble and high things, 
And striving to do what is right, 

Shall this all be profitless labor ? 

Shall virtue ne'er meet its reward .'' 
Must Death turn our spirits to ashes 

Along with our vile flesh and blood ? 

I question, nor need Echo answer ; 

The Spirit within gites reply ; 
*' Thy body may rot, for 'tis carrion. 

The Soul of Man never shall die." 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 85 



A VIEW FROM LOMBARD'S HILL. 



One night at sunset, I was on the hill 
That overlooks the village in the vale, 

The stores, the churches, the noisy mill 
And shade trees in the twilight pale. 

While just across the valley I could see 

Monandock rising toward the cloud-flecked sky ; 

Above the river, winding recklessly, 

Stealing the meadows as it passed them by. 

And towards the East from whence at early dawn^ 
By little and little the day invades the sky ; 

Dixville's dark, massive shadow, rent and torn. 
With bold, bare shoulders meets the eye. 

But au revoir old hills, for even now 

My cows are lowing, cool night breezes blow, 

And far and near on many a green hill's brow 
The tinkling bells are sounding sweet and low. 



S6 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



AS SEEN AT SIXTEEN. 



This world is a field of action 
So wondrous, wide, and errand, 

That it gives a place for the lowest, 
The lowest of every land. 

If they but strive to gain it, 
Strive with all their might, 

With a purpose naught can conquer, 
At length they'll win the fight. 

And I must win my laurels, 
And gain a place and name, 

Or I shall be left in darkness, 
And my face be hid with shame. 

Nor is the world a place for dreamers. 

Or idle ones, or drones ; 
'Tis the place for men of action, 

Who can face it, if need be, alone. 

Men not afraid of labor, 

Wherever their place may be ; 

Whether in office, or mill, or shop. 
Or out in the ships at sea. 

It is men we want, not idlers. 

Who live not, — only stay. 
Be alive on this field of action. 

And improve it while you may. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 8/ 



THE CITY FOLKS. 



They are coming from the city, 

From the sandy ocean shore ; 
Coming, doctors and professors, 

And fifty thousand more. 

From colleges and Congress, 

From office, shop, and mills ; 
They are riding through our valleys, 

They are climbing up our hills. 

They are gunning every wood lot, 

They are fishing every brook. 
Catching pesky little minnows 

For the servant maids to cook. 

The hotels are swarming with them, 
And the coaches all bring loads. 

They never come in driblets, 
But always come in floods. 

Still there's something in their presence. 
With their pockets filled with chink, 

Which is not so disagreeable 
As some grumblers may think. 

So we'll welcome to the country. 
To our ledges, fields and pines, 

All our weary city neighbors 

Who'll come down well with the dimes. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



THINK OF THE POOR. 

Dear friends, as you go to the mountains, 
Where the merry brooks dance in the wood, 

As you drink of the heaven-born fountains, 
As you bathe in the lake's shining flood, 

As you grace the cool beach of the ocean. 
Or recline on the cushions of ease, 

Far away from the city's commotion, 
Where all is to comfort and please, 

Just think of the children of hunger, 
That herd in the quarters of want, 

The stifling dens of our city. 

Where poverty sits naked and guant. 

Oh, God pity the poor in the city, 

These days of languor and heat. 
The mothers and babes, God pity, 

To whom life is a burden and cheat; 

And may He raise some one to help them, 
And save from the burdens they bear. 

For man is so cruel and thoughtless ; 
For them there is no one to care. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 89 



POPLAR LEAVES. 



There's a squirrel chatting, chitting, 

In the gray-green branch above me, 
To his mate beneath him sitting 

Where the brooklet gurgles free ; 
And this sprightly cliirp makes rhythm 

With the playful winds of heaven, 
As they press against the petals 

Of the gray-green poplar tree. 

See the round leaves dancing, glancing, 

As the sunshine breaks the shadow 
And looks in with glow entrancing 

Through the fog above the meadow, 
Floating, melting in the morning air. 

Squirrel, you and I will share 
In the pleasure of the dancing 

Poplar leaves, this morning fair. 

Poplar leaves ! Though mute, you are showin; 

What I've sometimes longed to know, — 
Truth, indeed, that's worth the knowing, — 

How that all things here below. 
Each is fitted to the other, 

Each is made to fit each other. 
As the mission of the poplar leaves 

Is to dance for winds that blow. 



90 THOUGHTS IN VERSE. 



FINALE. 



Dear critic, wipe your pen, 
And save your time and space 

To every charge I nolo plead 
With firm, unblushing face. 

This little book I send 

To friends I may not know, 

Seeking to make a friend 
Wherever it may go. 

If any page shall please, 
Or any thought illume, 

Skip that which disagrees 
And where you like, resume. 

And when we meet again, 
Beneath whatever skies, 

May we see clearer then, 
With true and friendly eyes. 



